Year Out, Year In

We celebrate in divers ways,
Forgetting there are some
Three hundred sixty-five new days
Of hangover to come.

The year is dead; long live the year
Once future, now the present;
Thereby becoming, now and here,
More and yet more unpleasant.

Unlucky 'thirteen's gone; we send
It out with cordial curse.
'Fourteen comes in the other end,
Aspiring to be worse.